You take a child. You put him in a commune - call it daycare - and he begins a habit of transitional relationships. No one is permanent. One of many. Not a priority. Not a preference. The only noticed is the untempered. Throw a tantrum and get seen. The adults are the rats responding to his bell.
Then we school him in the unremarkable. No spectacular achievement is lauded; all achievement is praised. We teach him the useless of adverbs. Degrees of conjugation is inconsequential. Everyone gets the ribbon. The baseline is a period; to hell with the exclamation point. He’s packed. He’s in a pack. One of many. Only noticed if he bites the lead dog’s ass or barks loudest.
But at night, after the togetherness of the any of the many, he’s in bed. Alone. In the dark he knows he’s alone. And he knows communal is a lie. He’s alone. And he knows you lied to him. He isn’t noticeable or distinguishable. You showed him through your choices that unconditional love is conditional. The shelf lives of marriages and friendships depend on the conditions. He learns love lasts as long as it’s favorable living conditions. He learns love is dependent on the degrees of self-satiation. And he hates you for lying to him that he was surrounded, preferred over telephones, and appetites, and self-soothings. He sees he’s not a priority. Not a preference. He lives afraid and untrusting. He hates liars. He hates how he feels. He hates. He’s hateful. Full of hate.
You can condemn the priest, the politician, and the professor, but we created the chasm; we can’t cure with a bigger commune. You owed him a cocoon.